


Gwilym Lee x Reader - Dwi'n Isel

by gingersnaptaff



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018) RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: Cutting, Depression, F/M, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 10:17:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17201645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingersnaptaff/pseuds/gingersnaptaff
Summary: Gwilym comforts you after you have a depressive episode.





	Gwilym Lee x Reader - Dwi'n Isel

_‘If people are here for a reason then what’s my reason?’_ You’re hunched over the bathroom sink, your mind is racing and you take another sip from your can of rum and coke. You catch sight of yourself in the mirror and you don’t even have the heart to be glowering in anger at your reflection anymore.

 Tears are threatening to spill from your eyes, the skin around them already puffy and irritated from the salt water. Your nose is running, and you can feel the scream that you so desperately want to let lose build its way out, irritating you like a sickly cough. You have to tamp down on it, swallowing back bile as you do.

 _‘I’m not fucking important. Look at me. I’m useless. I’m pathetic.’_ Your hands grip the porcelain rim of the skin and you close in on yourself, body trembling as a sob rips through you, a howl of anguish that you can’t quite get a grip on to force back down making its way out of your mouth. _‘I won’t amount to **anything**_ **.** _’_

There is hair in front of your eyes, your lips are dry, and you can feel the furriness on your tongue and you sink down, head bumping against the sink. Your back is against the coolness of the wall and you take a stuttering breath, coughing for a moment.

You’re well aware that you stink, your clothes smell strongly of sweat, tangy and acrid, and you haven’t cleaned your teeth in _days_. You’ve been slaving away for days trying to seem like everything as normal, trying to seem like you were okay but you know that it rings hollow. The bloodshot eyes that stare at you in the mirror and the ghostly pallor on your cheeks can tell you that much.

It’s far too quiet for your mind to handle though. The apartment is silent. Gwilym’s footsteps are not ringing out on the wooden floors like they normally would and neither of your two dogs are barking to alert you to anything.

 _‘No one would care...’_ you have to leave the thought unfinished because it threatens to consume you. You’re shivering as you eye up the razor blade on the edge of the bath. There are a million thoughts echoing round your head right now and you cannot seem to make them _shut up. ‘Never, never never,’_ echoes around your head and you can feel the mad laughter balloon up in your chest, suffocating you and it makes your chest ache.

The rational part of your mind – or, at least what’s left of it – knows that this is silly. Or, at least that’s what you’ve programmed it to think. You’re so dead inside that you’re fairly sure that blood wouldn’t even come out of your wounds at this point. You’re a husk of ideas and energy and far too bright optimism that you know deep down is burning _lie._ Revulsion clenches your gut at what you’ve become and you shriek, burying your head in your hands.

“Cariad?”

 _‘Oh fuck._ ’ It’s Gwilym. There’s no mistaking the cheerful timbre of his voice. The slight welsh accent peeks through whenever he’s excited and you can imagine him poised outside the bathroom with the dogs at his feet, their tails wagging at a hundred  miles per hour in their joy to see their master finally home. You’re aware that your heartbeat is storming in your ears. _‘He wasn’t supposed to be back until **tomorrow**.’_

“G- give me a minute!” You yell. Your voice is shaky, full of unshed tears, thick with disgust for yourself and you can hear the hum of agreement in his voice.

You reach for three things in order of desperation. The razor, the sink, and the rum and coke balanced upon the windowsill. ‘ _Maybe, maybe he won’t be able to tell._ ’ It’s a desperate thought, half-mad with hope, but it makes you feel _something._

“Cariad, let me come in,” Gwilym’s voice is soft. He tries the door handle but you’d made damn well sure that you’d locked it this time. You don’t need a repeat of him seeing you with blood dripping down your arms and puking into the sink. He’d divorce you right then and there.

“No,” you yell. You’re not sure what on earth you’re yelling that for. ‘ _He’ll come in anyway. He always does. If he doesn’t break down the door he fucking cajoles me to open it for him.’_ “Leave me _alone_ , Gwil.”

A cough wracks your body and you can imagine Gwilym eyeing the best way to make you open the door. The razor glints beckoningly in the low light and you slide your way towards it. Gwilym is hammering on the door now, yelling at you to _listen_ to him and you have to block him out. _‘What does he know? He can’t do anything. He says he loves me but he’d probably just leave me if he could.’_

Your fingers tremble as you finally take the razor into your hands. _‘One quick slice and that would be it.’_

You lift the sleeve of your jumper up, placing the razor above your wrist waiting for the burn, for the tear of skin and the warmth of blood upon your skin but the door finally gives way, the deadbolt clattering to the ground.

“Cariad? Sweetheart, I want you to look at me.” Gwilym is looming at you in the doorway, hands outstretched as though he is dealing with a skittish deer and there is a look of – of _shock_ on his face? “Baby, what were you gonna do?”

“Gwil – I...”

“It’s alright, Cariad. You don’t need to tell me unless you want to.”

“Gwilym, please,” The tightness in your chest is squirming now, and you breakdown again. You do not care when he gently takes the razor from you, hefts it into the bin, and gathers you into his arms.

“S’alright.” He says, breath warm against the shell of your ear. “I’m here now.”

“I just feel so unworthy.” You sob, “I haven’t achieved anything and I see you just – just being brilliant. I’m sick of trying to live a lie that I’m okay because I _have_ to. I – I just can’t do it anymore. I feel like I will never _amount_ to anything, Gwil.”

You splutter for a moment, voice raw from everything. Gwilym rocks you gently, murmuring reassurances in your ear. He presses a kiss to your temples, to your nose, and to your lips and you shiver against him. Your body has finally released the adrenaline that was powering you and you can feel yourself relaxing into his hold now, _desperate_ for some form of physical contact.

“You will,” he whispers, “I’ll be cheering you on every step of the way. You’re worth more than you will ever know, Cariad.”

“I don’t feel like I am,” You sniffle, “I feel like an imposter in my own body.”

Gwilym’s hold tightens on you a little more and he shakes his head. _‘Is he crying?’_

“I – I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

He shakes his head, “It’s alright. Don’t apologise. You’re important and that’s what matters. It takes time to be good at things. Your feelings are valid but please, for the love of God, don’t make me break down anymore doors. I keep getting dirty looks from the contractors now.”

You giggle, pulling your face away from his shirt to nod your head. “I’m sorry,” you say, “I – I got snot on your shirt.”

Gwilym shrugs, “It’ll wash out. It’s not the end of the world. Now, c’mon, we’ll continue this therapy session in the living room. The dogs have been wondering where the hell you were.”

“Oh,” is all you can say. Your mind feels like it’s been slammed into a rock, you’re still numb to near enough everything.

Gwilym gives you a small smile. “I wondered where the hell you were too but I thought you might’ve been in the bathroom. You frightened me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, really. You gave me a fright when I saw you with the razor.”

“I wanted to make the pain go away.” Your voice is childish and Gwilym huffs out a breath.

“And would it have helped you truly?”

“I – Maybe – I mean...”

“Cariad, look me in the eyes and tell me that.”

“Gwilym, please. Don’t make me say it. You know damn well it wouldn’t.”

“Then why?” It isn’t said in a condescending manner at all. It’s gentle and you turn away so as not to see the unshed tears in his eyes. There is a flicker of unspeakable pain upon his face and you’re silent.

“I wanted to feel – feel better than I was.” You feel like you might choke and you both stand in the corridor silently.

“What do you mean? Better than what?”

“Better than the fuck up I know I am.”

Gwilym’s eyes widen and you can see him mull over your words, the implications of them rattling around his head.

“You’re not a fuck up.” There is a hitch in his voice and you can see his posture deflate, a lone tear making its way down his face.

“I am,” You whisper, “You knew that, you’ve always known that but you’ve been too kind to say it to my face.”

“Cariad, I have never thought –“

“And I have to accept that everyone thinks this about me because it must be _true._ How can it not be? I’ve seen the look in people’s eyes. They judge me for things that I can’t help and that I can’t deal with because of – because of _this_.” You point at your forehead and shake your head violently, tears streaming down your face once more. “Look at me and tell me and tell me that you don’t think that I’m a fucking idiot. _Tell me.”_

Gwilym is silent.

“See? It’s so true that even you admit it.” Your heart is booming against your chest and your breath is coming in large gasps, as though someone has just thrown a large bucket of ice over you.

Gwilym is shivering slightly, an arm wrapped over his chest in comfort and he shakes his head.

“I don’t think that.”

“See, you keep saying that but you – you don’t believe it! I can see the dismissal in your eyes.” You snarl.

“You keep pushing me away.” He says, “I want to help you, I _want_ to be there for you but you keep deciding that I _shouldn’t_ be. I _love_ you. I made a commitment to you and I’ll be damned if I don’t follow through. You’re my _wife_. I don’t want to see you like this because it breaks my heart. Let me in and tell me what’s bothering you. I will do everything in my power to help.”

“You can’t. You _can’t_.” You sob, not meeting his gaze.

“Yes, I can.” He whispers, cocooning you into a hug. “I love you. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t talk to me about things that make you feel like they’re eating you alive.”

“It’s so hard.” You whimper, “It’s so hard to pretend like everything’s okay.”

Gwilym nods, “Then tell me about it so you can feel okay. Bottling it up isn’t good for you or for your mental health. I won’t judge you or say anything. Your feelings are valid and you’re... hell, you’re... well, I love you.”

“Thank you. I love you too.”

“Now, c’mon, I’m tired and I want food. Tell me about everything whilst we wait for the phone lines to the Indian to stop being clogged.”

You laugh through your tears and nod.


End file.
